Whose prophecy is worthy
to invest our hearts, hands, minds?
If our world makes a circle — no end or beginning —
may we slip between a then and now?
We sing Epiphany.
All the holy, all the empty,
all the sorrows filled with poetry,
with charging beasts of challenge
and slip ping back words.
I hear the Angels sing of Earth
as mud as muck, as fuckin’ murder in the womb,
as luck would have it,
as black streaks redact the wounds
of Heaven.
I hear the demons laugh,
snicker-snack akimbo,
hunker down to limbo to lindy hop
upon the prophet’s breath.
Such noise.
Such annoying brays and cagey whispers.
I would sleep, snore, evermore if they would
but diminish, allow silence to enfold. Instead,
the dream takes over, dissolves all sanity.
No morning (mourning)
(see, I can pun without baring to the Sun,
without dimension)(dementia — did I mention?).
Felled in heap of clay.
A poem should tell a story
but better,
straight out,
no fluff or frills.
Eyes locked to eyes
tongue to tongue
so there is no mistake.
Gasping pure air between
precipice and space
wrapped in precious pleasure.
The weight of the world.
The sadness of oceans.
The endless pain of life a’borning.
I am shaken; I am touched in that eternity.
If beauty demands sacrifice,
sacrifice demands such beauty.
Make Peace The Issue

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